


Baker-man, Part 1 - Jack

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Series: Baker-man [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon typical drug and alcohol use, M/M, mild bullying, possible dubious consent to making out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 11:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17579708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: Jack has been visited by a man bearing baked goods at various points of his life, both high and low.





	1. 1 Sept 1995

**Author's Note:**

> This is half of a two-part series. The other, from Eric's POV, can be read concurrently with Jack's part (in which case you could read Eric's parts backwards, to make the encounters line up), before Jack's, or after Jack's. This is kind of an experiment, so let me know what you think.  
> Many thanks to Tumblr user bitty-smol for the quick and thorough beta!

Jack stood at the edge of the schoolyard and frowned at the trees.

He was not going to cry. Definitely not. Not because stupid Timothy said Jack was too big to play with the other boys.

How was Jack supposed to know that stupid Timothy would raise such a fuss when Jack fell on him? Jack said he was sorry.

Papa and his friends never minded when Jack fell on them when they played. They didn’t even mind when they fell on each other when they played hockey together.

Once, when Uncle Ray fell on Papa during a game in Boston, Papa’s face was all bloody when he got up. Jack had kissed the cut when Papa came home and asked if it hurt, and Papa laughed and said it was just part of the game.

And Uncle Ray was much bigger around than Papa.

Jack decided again that Timothy was stupid. He wished there was someone at school who wasn’t stupid. The grown-ups stared and pointed at his mother, and his classmates stared and pointed at him.

Jack frowned again at the trees. There was a man there. He hadn’t been there a moment ago. 

Jack should yell. He was sure he was meant to yell when strangers approached.

But the man smiled and said, “It’s okay, sweetpea. I’m not gonna come any closer. Don’t worry yourself.”

Jack nodded and looked at the man some more. He was definitely a grown-up, but not a very big one, not like Papa and his hockey uncles.

He was wearing shorts and a shirt with three buttons and he had yellow hair. In his hands there was a padded case, like the ones Maman used sometimes to keep food cold if they were driving a long way. He was smiling like he was happy to see Jack, and the smile reached his warm, brown eyes.

“You’re Jack,” the man said.

Jack was silent. Maybe he was a friend of Maman’s? Jack didn’t know for sure.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” the man said. “I bet you’d like one of these, though. They’re yo- my daughter’s favorite.”

He opened the case to show Jack the container of Nanaimo bars inside. Jack started to reach for one, then drew his hand back.

“You’re right, of course,” the man agreed. “Silly of me to offer. If I give them to your teacher and she says the class can each have one, you’d like that, I bet. They’ll melt before I get back home anyway, and that would be a shame after I went to the trouble of making them. You’re what -- about five? I bet a class of kindergartners would love these.”

Jack found himself relaxing as the man chattered on. He didn’t sound like anyone Jack had ever met, but his voice was soothing.

“What are you doing way over here by yourself?” the man said.

“Stupid Timothy said I was too big to play,” Jack said. “Just because I fell on him.”

“Well, that is kind of a stupid thing to say,” the man said. “Is that him over there?”

The man followed Jack’s gaze to a small boy who was using his fists and feet to pummel another boy, who had wrapped himself around a ball.

“Doesn’t seem very nice, does he?” the man said. “Well, don’t you worry about him. You’ll grow into a strong man, not too big at all.”

Later, the office lady knocked on the door of his classroom and brought in the Nanaimo bars in their container.

“These were delivered with a note saying they’re from Jack Zimmermann’s family,” the lady said.

Jack thought his bar might be the best thing he ever tasted. And when they boys wanted to sit near him instead of Timothy, he just grinned.


	2. 21 Dec 1997

Jack smacked the puck into the goal, seeing it hit the mesh at the back of the net before the goalie even moved, and pumped his fist in a restrained celly.

There was nothing restrained about the smile on his face.

His team had to win this game to go into the Christmas break first in their league, and that meant he had to score. As much as he could.

It was only the second period, and he had two goals. Another hat trick would be good. It would be his third of the year -- a hat trick of hat tricks -- and it would make Maman smile and Papa laugh and tell him he was the best hockey player in the family.

He wasn’t really. But he liked to hear his Papa say he was.

After the game -- Jack finished with four goals in a 6-4 win -- Papa came back to the locker room to help unlace his skates. Jack tried to stop smiling so much. It was okay when he had his helmet on, with the cage that covered his face. But it didn’t do to look _too_ proud of himself.

Papa had sat down with him after the first hat trick, when Jack had spun around and made a fuss on the ice, and explained that it wasn’t kind to the other team. It looked like showing off, and it might make them think Jack thought he was better than them.

Jack was better than them, he told his Papa.

“Maybe at hockey,” Papa said. “But there’s probably something they do better than you. And even if you can skate faster and shoot harder, that doesn’t mean you’re a better person. Being kind makes you a better person.”

So Jack tried hard to be kind, and keep the cellys small. Especially when he scored on the same goalie four times in a game.

“I’m proud of you,” Papa said, helping him get the shoulderpads over his head. “You had a good game.”

Walking through the lobby, Jack smelled something wonderful. He looked up and saw a man -- a blond man -- with a box on a folding table. The box was full of little pies,and Jack could smell the meat and spices. Tourtieres. 

“Can I have one, Papa?” Jack asked. “I’m hungry.”

“Worked up an appetite, eh?” Papa said, approaching the man.

The man with the pies stared when they approached, but Jack was used to that. Lots of people stared when Papa brought him to hockey.

“How much for three?” Papa asked.

“Umm, they’re not for sale,” the man said. He looked familiar, Jack thought. Then he remembered -- he looked like the man with Nanaimo bars. 

“Not for sale?” Papa asked.

“Not for you, Mr. Zimmermann. Take as many as you want.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Papa said. 

But the man was looking at Jack.

“I saw your game,” he said. “You played really well. You should be proud of yourself.”

Jack suddenly felt shy. A stranger had noticed his hockey. But he’d seen the man before, so he wasn’t quite a stranger. He wondered if the man remembered him.

“You’re the baker-man,” Jack said.

The man laughed -- happy, not mean.

“You could say that,” he said. “Please, take some of these.”

Jack glanced at his father, then reached out for one. Bob grinned, shook his head, then tucked some bills under the box before grabbing two for himself.

“Good place to set up shop,” Bob said. “Lots of hungry kids coming off the ice.”


	3. 15 Sept 2003

Jack sat at the table with his head down. They lost again, their second game of the pre-season, and no matter how hard he’d tried, he hadn’t scored.

Coach Mallon sat across from him.

“How’re you feeling?” he said. “That was a hard hit you took there in the third.”

“I’m fine,” Jack said.

“No nausea? Dizziness?”

“No sir,” Jack said.

“Glad to hear it,” Coach Mallon said. “How do you think your first two games with us went?” “Not well,” Jack said. 

“Why’s that?”

“I didn’t score,” Jack said. “I didn’t help my linemates score.”

“I’m not so worried about that,” Mallon said. “Although I’m sure a goal would feel good. You feel like you can keep up with the pace? With the physicality?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack said.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Coach Mallon said. “It’s different playing up at this level, and while you could skate rings around the people on your old team, you’re playing with boys up to two years older than you. And you’re taking a spot from one of them.”

“I know, sir,” Jack said. “I’ll be better.”

“You’re also on the smaller side when you’re used to being on the bigger side,” Coach Mallon said. “Maybe eat more protein.”

“I’ve been trying, sir,” Jack said. “I’m doing my best to help the team.”

“I know you are, son,” Coach Mallon said. “Help me show everyone I didn’t make a mistake by having you play up a level. Now get out of here.”

“Yes sir,” Jack said.

As he left the office, he nearly collided with someone in the hallway.

It was a blond man, about Jack’s height, improbably holding a tray of butter tarts. It was the man Jack had seen twice before.

“What’re you doing here, baker-man?” Jack asked. “You can’t be selling those in the back hall.”

“I’m not,” the man said. “I just kind of ... ended up here. Want to try one?”

Jack took two of the tiny treats and popped one in his mouth.

“These are good,” he said. “But I’m not really supposed to eat them.”

“Why not?” the baker asked.

“I need to eat more protein,” Jack said. “The coach said I need to put on more muscle to compete at this level.”

The man looked like he was trying to hide a smile, but all he said was, “A couple of little butter tarts won’t stop you from eating your protein. And I’m sure you’ll end up with plenty of muscle.”

Jack took another tart.

“Is your dad here to drive you home?” the man said. “Do you want to take some for him?”

“Not yet,” Jack said. “I was going to head back out to the ice to do some shooting, and then my skating coach is going to come and do some power skates with me.”

“But didn’t you just have practice?” the man asked.

“Yes, but that was team practice,” Jack said.

“You don’t want to overdo it,” the man said.

“You have to work hard if you want to get better,” Jack said. “How many times did you make these tarts before you got them right?”


	4. 14 Feb 2009

Jack stumbled out the front door of the house after Kent, who was moving fast.

“Jesus, how drunk _are_ you?” Kent asked as Jack tried to keep his feet under him on the snowy sideway.

“Not that drunk,” Jack protested. “I only had a few beers.”

A few beers and a Klonapin, because Jack and parties didn’t mix.

“And yet you can’t walk straight,” Kent said.

“‘M fine,” Jack said.

“Then go back in there, make out with that girl,” Kent said. “She’s obviously into you, and you seem to feel the same.”

“No,” Jack said. “She just --”

“She was sitting in your lap with her tongue halfway down your throat, Jack,” Kent said. “And your tongue was halfway down hers. It looked pretty mutual to me.”

“I didn’t want to upset her,” Jack said. “Or make a scene. So when she sat on my lap and kissed me, I kissed her back. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Say no thank you?” Kent said. “I don’t know -- stand up?”

“It’s been Valentine’s Day for like an hour,” Jack said. “I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kent said again.

“It was nothing,” Jack said. “I didn’t mean anything.”

“I know,” Kent said. “Believe me, I know.”

He stalked off, and Jack pulled his toque more firmly over his ears and set off to follow him. He pulled up short after almost running over a small man who was not wearing a coat and bearing a plate of cookies.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there,” Jack said, grabbing the man’s shoulders to steady him. “Headed to the party?”

“Jack?” the man said. “Are you okay?”

Jack looked again. The man was short and compact, with blond hair that shone under the streetlamp and brown eyes. He wasn’t wearing a coat, and he was shivering.

“Baker-man?” Jack asked. “How did you get to Rimouski? And how aren’t you old yet?”

The man shrugged.

“I turn up in the strangest places,” he said. “Are you okay? You look a little drunk. Have a cookie.”

Jack took one of the heart-shaped cookies from the tray and nearly moaned. The cookie itself was tender, not crumbly, and both it and the glaze tasted of maple.

“These are delicious,” he said. “Were you taking them to the party? Do you know Camille somehow?”

“I’m not really close to her,” the man said. “And I’d be crashing. I was just making these for .. some friends.” “The cookies might make up for it,” Jack said. “I’ll go in with you.”

“If you promise to drink some water,” the man said.

“Sure,” Jack said, flashing him a smile. “Whatever you say.”

The man blushed. He was cute in a way Jack had never noticed before. But how was he not older? The last time Jack saw him was five years ago, and then the man looked to be a grownup. Now he looked to be a few years older than Jack, but somehow more innocent.

“What happened to K-- your friend?” the man asked. “He seemed upset.”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “I’m not sure he even knows what he wants.”


	5. 3 Aug 2009

Jack opened his eyes to the late afternoon sun washed along the beige institutional wall.

Still not dinnertime. He hadn’t slept long. Maybe if he tried, he could sleep through dinnertime.

Maybe if tried, he could sleep through dinnertime and breakfast tomorrow and group therapy and lunch tomorrow and his meeting with his therapist and however long he was supposed to stay in this godforsaken place.

But then he wouldn’t make “progress,” and they’d never let him out.

He wasn’t sure why he cared -- there was nothing left to work for anyway. He would never say it out loud, not to his parents, not to his therapist, but even if the overdose had been an accident, sometimes he was sorry he hadn’t died. Everything he had lived for was gone anyway.

If he needed a reminder of that, there was the pathetic birthday party they’d had for him at lunch. Maman and Papa came, trying to look like it was a happy occasion and failing miserably. Then something smelled good. LIke apples and cinnamon and maple. Nothing ever smelled that good except … he rolled over, and there the blond baker was, holding a pie with oven mitts on his hands. 

“Fuck,” Jack said.

“Jack?” the baker said. “Where are we?”

_“We_ aren’t anywhere,” Jack said. “You’re a hallucination. You must be. I must be more fucked up than I thought if I’ve been hallucinating the same guy since I was five years old.”

“I dont think I’m a hallucination,” the baker said, but he didn’t sound very sure. He also looked younger than Jack had ever seen him. “Maybe I’m hallucinating. I’m in the kitchen, and I just took this pie out of the oven. It’s hot. I can feel it through the oven mitts.”

“You’re not in a kitchen. You’re in a rehab facility. Or I’m in a rehab facility. It’s locked -- you couldn’t get to this room without an escort,” Jack said. “So you can’t be real.”

“Wait -- you’re in rehab?” the baker said. “What year is it?”

“2009,” Jack said. “You know that’s one of the questions they ask when they they think you’re out of your mind?”

“Is it your birthday?” the baker asked.

“What, you think you’re an answer to a wish?” Jack said. “They couldn’t even light the fucking candles on the fucking cake. Kind of like my life. Failure to ignite. Sputtered out too soon. And now there’s no fucking point.”

“Oh, Jack,” the baker said, looking sad and determined all at once. He put the pie down on top of the book on Jack’s bedside table and came closer to look in his face. “You might not believe me -- you might not believe in me -- but your life is not over. Things will get so much better for you, and you’ll do so many great things.”

He paused to swallow a hitch in his breath, and his eyes were wet.

“I -- so many people will love you, Jack,” he said. “I promise.”

Jack snorted. “You have no way of knowing that,” he said. “I mean, it’s nice of you to say. But could you do me a favor and go away?”

Jack turned back to the wall and closed his eyes. Maybe he could go back to sleep.

When he opened them again, the baker was gone. But the pie remained, just like the sweet and savory things from every encounter Jack had with the baker man. He didn’t have any utensils, so he pushed a finger into it, pulling out some filling that had a bit of crust clinging to it.

The apple was firm and tart, and the filling around it was warm and sweet. The taste of maple was infused into the filling and the flaky crust. Jack sat up and scooped out another bite. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlookfrightened) or on [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/justlookfrightened)!


End file.
